


The Most Dangerous Man in London?

by Phantomsforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Monologue, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomsforever/pseuds/Phantomsforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even a trained sniper just needs to rant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Dangerous Man in London?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely therecognitonscene for beta-ing and telling me this wasn't completely horrid.

Jim.

Jim Moriarty.

 _James_ Moriarty.

And you best call him James unless he tells you otherwise. Actually, just stick to Mister Moriarty, gives him a sense of importance, not that he needs it, mind you.

But, you came to hear about me, didn’t you, not about Jim. I guess, in a way, hearing about him is hearing about me. Jim Moriarty, the man with the plan…

Soldiers like to define themselves by those they save, by the lives they spare, but it’s just a lie they tell themselves to sleep at night. It’s not really true. It’s the ones they kill who truly define them. If they tell you any different, well, don’t take it. They’re just bullshitting you. That’s how I define…defined…my life with Jim, you know. By the kills. We didn’t have clients every day, that would’ve been tedious, but my worth was only determined by those I shot. It didn’t even count _if_ I shot them, but it had to be in the “prescribed manner dictated by the client.” Ha. Why does it bloody matter how they died, as long as the shot was clean and they’re dead now?

Jim didn’t always have that calloused criminal face he put on for the world. He could be…well, not sweet, but I dunno. There may not be a word in the English language to describe one James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal. 

You know, one time I came home from a job, drenched in blood and sweat, (had to kill the target in the “prescribed manner”) dreading the encounter (And I had begun to call them that: encounters) with Jim. How he hated it when I, when anything, was dirty. This time, I expected it to be much of the same: yelling, throwing things, forced showers, sleeping on the couch; it’s not like I hadn’t experienced this particular _encounter_ dozens of times by this point. That’s why I had to check the flat number when I walked in to dinner set on the table. _Dinner._ Jim Moriarty was a lot of things, but chef was most definitely not one of them. I drew my SIG, thinking it was another deranged client trying to fuck with us. Points for creativity, mate. 

Set my rifle down carefully by the door, silent as always and crept into the kitchen, well it wasn’t exactly a kitchen, but that doesn’t really matter, and fuck, if the sight of Jim, in a fucking apron, fucking cooking, _cooking!_ didn’t almost make me shoot him on the spot…well…

I’d be dead if it weren’t for him, you know. When he found me, pissed in an alley behind some pub, smoking the filter of my last fag, god I must have been a fucking sight. No idea what possessed this man, dressed in a bloody suit, with his mobile to his ear and bleeding sunglasses on to even spare me a second glance. 

He put me up in some fancy hotel, got me a shower and bought me my first suit. Tailored, black, slim fit, perfect to my measurements, dunno how he managed that, but after working with him for enough time, one stops asking such _irrelevant_ questions. Maybe it was Armani, Versace, the brand didn’t mean much, but dammit if I don’t still have that in my closet. Sentiment, I guess. Jim’d kill me for it. I’d deserve it…

I guess I’d be the one killing me for it since our dear Mister Moriarty never liked getting his hands dirty. He won’t have to deal with my shit any more. Especially my fags. God he hated those. I always had to smoke outside. Even now, I can’t bring myself to light one in the house. Little prick’s still got a hand over me. 

He said I’d be dead before thirty if I didn’t stop smoking. But, if I’d expected a long life, I wouldn’t have entered his employ, become a fucking sniper, done anything, really. I’d be some boring old sod with a desk job and a bottle of Talisker at the end of the night. ,em>B o r I n g, right, Jim?

They’re saying now that I’m the most dangerous man in London, but s’not true. It’s still him. Doesn’t matter that he blew his fucking brains out. Doesn’t matter that he‘s…

He still runs this bloody town. He’s dead and he’s still got more pull than the war lords who’ve been around here for decades. 

And fuck all if he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
